


never going down at the hands of the likes of you

by astronavigatrix



Series: Antithesis/Analogue [2]
Category: Powerpuff Girls
Genre: (sort-of), Buttercup kicks Butch's ass and he's Kind of Into It, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Innuendo, Oneshot, Rivalry, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronavigatrix/pseuds/astronavigatrix
Summary: because I'm so much betterorButch, Buttercup and violence.
Relationships: Butch/Buttercup Utonium
Series: Antithesis/Analogue [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/861760
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96





	never going down at the hands of the likes of you

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, progress in this series.

  
  
  
Brick was his brother, and Brick was his 'leader', but Brick was not (as some seemed to think) the undisputed boss of him.  
  
Which is why when Butch, freshly on parole and strolling around before his 'sentence' truly begins, sees Buttercup stepping out of an ice cream shop, an extra-large milkshake in hand and eyes glued to her phone, he doesn't hesitate to follow. Butch's eyes aren't the only ones that follow her, he notes. Other guys their age (and older) follow the faint bobbing of her cropped hoodie and the tight stretch of the black tank beneath with interest. Others keep their eyes on the well-toned leg's she's making no real use of at the moment, one ankle tucked behind a calf idly. He can't help but scoff at some of the commentary he hears, or how they can think she doesn't hear them. But if she does, Buttercup gives no indication, simply continuing on, occasionally sipping her drink and tap-tap-tapping away at her phone.  
  
And Butch? Butch still follows.  
  
He has no plan, no rhyme or reason- but he's Butch and she's Buttercup and what would be the fun in running into his _better half_ and not taking full advantage? What that means is a mystery so far, but he's working on it. For the moment, he's more than content to simply follow, just out of sight, as Buttercup meanders through the city at a slow, steady hover. So distracted is he by the possibilities floating through his mind, he doesn't recognize that he's being led into isolation until it's much, much too late. Only when they're in the middle of the empty lot does Buttercup stop, the wind ruffling her hair up to reveal the pale lime of her undercut as she tucks her phone into her pocket.  
  
"You just gonna tail me like a sad mutt, or you gonna do something?"  
  
"Spoilsport," Butch groans, not altogether seriously, his voice trailing into something that could loosely be described as a whine. "Fuckin' rude to just lead a guy on like that, Cupcake."  
  
The nickname makes her bristle- the image it inspires belying softness, sweetness, a delicacy that cannot truly be ascribed to Buttercup herself- and it's a good thing her phone is no longer in her hand, or else it might be in pieces. Her hand clenches into a fist briefly before she shakes it out, fingers curled lightly. Hands lifting toward her shoulders, she keeps them palm up as she gives a shrug, mindful of her milkshake and dropping onto the asphalt with a frustrated sigh. Weight shifting from foot to foot, she doesn't turn to look at him, instead lifting her eyes to the darkening sky. Her chin lifts, and Butch tenses, the stubborn motion associated with her unique but familiar brand of violence. But Buttercup doesn't move, and it makes the tension in him that much worse.  
  
"You know you can't fight me like that, right?"  
  
It's a tone he's heard a thousand times from her before: irritated, exhausted, resigned. Butch's arms tense but he scoffs, moving to thumb at the cuff on his wrist.  
  
"What, cause of this thing? Come on Cupcake," he croons, bittersweet as cyanide, just to watch her twitch, "you know this isn't gonna stop me."  
  
It should though. The cuff in question is a power-dampener- perfected by the professor after years of the girls wanting to play team sports but being disallowed because of their powers. Except the one on Butch's wrist is about ten times as strong, ten times as sturdy, and ten times as durable as the thin black choker Buttercup's is disguised as. The cuff around his wrist is both beacon and warning, marking him as someone highly dangerous. If it didn't also sap every bit of superhuman strength and durability from him, Butch might almost be flattered.  
  
"You're right," she says, and slurps her milkshake loudly, leaning her body to one side as she heaves a sigh. "I do know."  
  
But she also knows she's expected to be better than him, knows she's meant to dissuade him from this, to walk away. And for the first time, Buttercup decides she's tired of being the bigger person. Decides she's tired of 'setting a good example' when she and the whole city know that if anyone's going to learn from example, it's not going to be Butch. Idly she shakes the cup, mostly-drained, and sighs. Her fingers slide across the metal on her neck, and the device beeps once in confirmation, tightening slightly to indicate its activation. She can hear Butch shift at the sound, probably getting ready to pounce. Buttercup heaves another put-upon sigh, knowing she's going to be irritated later, knowing she's going to have to 'explain herself' despite feeling like she has no reason to, and bends down, removing her phone from her shorts to tuck it into her boots. No use chancing it slipping out, after all, goddamn women's fashion. Butch heaves a heavy, anticipatory exhale behind her as she straightens, tossing her cup over her shoulder.  
  
Then she spins as it's in midair and kicks it directly toward his face.  
  
The cup misses, but the remaining contents splatter across the side of Butch's cheek, his shoulder, and Buttercup is _there_ , coming in low and then coming _up_ in a swift and vicious uppercut. Butch stumbles as he's pushed up off his feet (he's sure there was a little bit of residual super-strength in that one, if the way his head's ringing is any indication) but comes back swinging almost immediately. If anything, Buttercup has to admire his tenacity- that hit would've knocked the average guy out cold at _least_ , but here he is, still kicking.  
  
\--and literally, at that.  
  
Buttercup meets the knee that comes at her side with the side of her forearm, wincing a bit as it connects. If there's one thing she hates about not having her powers it's how much everything can _hurt_ if she's not careful, but she doesn't usually hurt easily. But her forearm _aches_ where he's connected, and she'd be impressed, if she didn't know that it means it could be trouble if he lands the right hit.  
  
One more point in Butch's favor then.  
  
Her own foot meets his chest in retaliation, and she pivots on her back foot, coming around with her heel meeting one of his cheeks. She swings her leg back the other way and meet the other a split second later. Momentum carrying her, she spins her elbow into his chest, bringing her arm up ninety degrees into his nose as he doubles over from the impact. The turn continues, her bent arm hooking around his neck, her motion carrying her over his shoulder, where she rolls, forcing him up, backward and over her body, flung across the ground with a heave of her breath. A cough wracks its way out of him as he rolls onto his hands and knees, and he wipes the back of his hand across his nose, streaking red across the skin as he spits blood onto the ground. Spine straight, Buttercup sets one hand on her hip and cocks her head as brilliant emerald eyes land on her, rolling her shoulder with an upward twitch of one brow.  
  
_'Had enough?'_ the motion seems to ask, and Butch's tongue drags over his teeth as he darts forward in response.  
  
It's not enough. It's not _nearly_ enough. He wants more of it, even as he knows, as he understands, just how outmatched he is. Knowing it doesn't stop him though. He's meant to fight, dogged and determined to the last, and even though he fights his brothers all the time, she's always been different. Still is, though now it's in a way he's not quite sure how to explain. He knows what it is- can't deny that she's good, she's _better_ , and he's thrilled by it. He's thrilled by it, but he's a little afraid of it too, and if _that's_ not a new sensation, one that he (surprisingly) relishes as he rushes at her to try and see just what she can do.  
  
His swings are wild, but they're fast, faster than she'd anticipated they'd be without his powers- but Buttercup is still faster. Ducking one punch, then another, and another, she steps forward as he does, redirecting the last punch over her head with enough force to push him off balance, hooking her leg around his knee and slamming her arm across his torso to knock him onto his back. Her arm retreats as he falls, and as he hits the ground, her fist is meeting his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him in a single sharp strike. Butch grabs her wrist with a snarl, yanking her arm over one shoulder and meeting her forehead with his. The strike makes her eyes cross with the force, and to her surprise, he does it again and again until she throws herself forward to straddle his shoulders, keeping him from bringing his weight up. As her eyes refocus from the sudden onslaught, she presses one of her knees into the joining of his shoulder to his torso, hearing him curse loudly under his breath.  
  
He doesn't see her fist coming.  
  
"Stop. Your. Bullshit!" Each word is punctuated with a strike that knocks Butch's head against the pavement. She should feel bad. _Would_ feel bad if it were just about anyone else. But it's always been like this, and she knows that even with this punishment, Butch still won't learn. Things aren't quite the same anymore though; not like how they used to be. Because it used to be that they were on a much more level playing field. It used to be that Butch could take her punishing strikes in stride and still want more, both because of childish resilience and superhuman endurance. But unlike Buttercup, he hasn't been learning to take hits regardless of whether or not he has his power, and as she straightens, she can see the haze over his eyes, the slight difficulty he has in focusing.  
  
So she leans down, grabbing his face in one hand, and narrows her eyes, teeth grit and lip curled.  
  
"Do you get it yet?" She asks softly, dangerously. "Why you can't fight me, _even like this_?"  
  
_'Even while we're both equally powerless'_ is what she's saying without actually saying it, mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. Butch only laughs, head tilting back against the ground, green eyes too bright for how his pupils are dilating somewhat unevenly.  
  
"You mean why I can't _beat you_ even like this, right?" He drawls, and Buttercup blinks down at him as he keeps laughing almost just for the sake of the sound, hands dropped on either side of his head. "Trust me, I get it. Don't like it, but I get it Cupcake. My brothers on the other hand… nah. They haven't really caught the memo."  
  
Because even if Brick is the 'smart one', he's got a prideful streak too wide to see the forest for the trees, and Boomer doesn't care enough to notice. Butch, however- Butch who breathes violence, who's always looked forward to testing himself against his other half's fists- Butch understands. He understands that even if he's been working on his own strength, even if he's been fighting where and when he can for the hell of it, it's not the _same_. He can't keep up, not as he is.  
  
But he _wants_ to.  
  
He kind of hates it. And he watches as she realizes that maybe Butch really _does_ get it, and he might be the only one of his siblings that does. Buttercup sits back, knocking the wind out of him as she does, and shoves her hand back through her hair, shaking her head. Her knuckles meet his cheek, tilting his head to the side, and Butch watches her out of the corner of his eyes, still hazy but recovering.  
  
"If you really wanna get your ass kicked that bad, join a gym or something."  
  
Buttercup rolls to her feet, planting her heels just above his shoulders as she bends down to keep her eyes on him.  
  
"I'm not your personal trainer, and you kind of make a shitty punching bag when I could break you in half if I really tried."  
  
"Hot," Butch leers, watching her nose twitch and her mouth twist.  
  
"Gross," she replies, as if not surprised he'd be into that sort of thing. Maybe being his counterpart, she gets why.  
  
Either way, she doesn't say anything else just yet, her arms crossing as she straightens, and he squirms to hook his arms around her ankles, pulling himself up and wiping his still-bleeding nose against her shin. Giving a shriek of both irritation and disgust, Buttercup dislodges him with a swift motion, kicking lightly at his side as Butch rolls onto his side, cackling. Bending again, she reaches out and uses the hem of his shirt to wipe her skin clean, and he's lucky his shirt's black, or else he might have to worry about the stain. Then she kicks away from him with a hop, fingers brushing over the metal at her neck and she's in the air before she can hit the ground. Ankles crossing, she stares down at him, hands folded across her stomach, and shakes her head.  
  
"Go home, Butch," she says, but what she means is 'get out of my face before I break yours' in the most polite way she can, "or I'll _take_ you home, and then you can explain that to your parole officer."  
  
Butch snorts, rubbing the heel of his palm against his cheek, and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Hey, you're welcome to take me home any time you like, Cupcake," he retorts, and Buttercup restrains a roll of her own eyes. "But fine, fine. Don't need this fucking sentence of death by boredom extended."  
  
Buttercup just watches him get to his feet, silent and watchful, and then smirks a little.  
  
"I meant it you know," she says, "join a fucking gym. One with a boxing ring or something." It's not a command, it's barely a suggestion, but he thinks he knows what she's getting at.  
  
_'If you want to get back to even ground, you've got to_ ** _work_** _for it.'  
  
_ He shrugs in response, hands slipping into his pockets, and turns away. He'll think about it. Maybe.  
  
"Oh, and Butch?"  
  
Half-turning, he raises a brow over a purpling eye, and Buttercup straightens from where she'd been reaching to pull her phone back out, a smirk on her face. Her fingers gesture to her cheek to mirror the splatter across his, lips twitching in her amusement.  
  
"Bukkake and blood's not a bad look for you."  
  
Butch chokes, the laugh that rises in his throat slightly hysterical and disbelieving and by the time he pulls himself together enough to try and flip her off, Buttercup is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> happy early valentine's, greens fans.


End file.
